The Case of the Stolen Wardrobe
by BelleIllumina
Summary: It is rare to render the great Sherlock Holmes speechless and unhinged. I could count in one hand the people who did, and now among them is an old woman who was our client. Mrs. Susan Lilianne Garnett nee Pevensie. And given days to analyze the events I wouldn't deny that it felt like we were visited by royalty. [BBC Sherlock/Narnia crossover]
1. The Client

**This is long, like really long. Any flaw and stuff are all my fault. I am more acquainted with 'deducing feelings and intentions' than real facts because of roleplaying Susan Pevensie for so long. Year set would be 2013 or 2014 so Susan would be around 85-86. Crappy and Long Writing, you have been warned.**

**The Client**

_It is rare to render the great Sherlock Holmes speechless and unhinged. I could count in one hand the people who did, and now among them is an old woman who was our client. Mrs. Susan Lilianne Garnett nee Pevensie. And given days to analyze the events I wouldn't deny that it felt like we were visited by royalty._

_Being married doesn't change the fact that Sherlock would need a babysitter and it started with Mrs. Hudson calling me up because Sherlock was once again shooting the wall. I had half the mind to shoot someone's head by then, and promised that I will come as soon as I could._

"Five minutes." John Watson growled as he hit his head to his desk lightly, his wife watching him with a small smile. "Can he not realize that I have a pregnant wife and a job!"

"Well assisting him is a job of yours too." Mary pointed out while stifling a giggle.

"Assisting not babysitting!"

"You could start collecting quotes to put on shirts dear." She grinned "I could take your place. I am not that far along and it's as you said, five minutes till end of your shift. You know you could handle him when he's like this."

"Oh I know. He'll go… '**John I need a** **case!'** and he hasn't made a move to check his emails!"

"Just go." It was only when Mary had pushed him out the door did he realized he already wore his coat and was yes, ready to go.

_Mrs. Garnett, or Susan as she requested she be called, was already looking at the door of 221B when I've arrived. She was a strong woman even for one in her late 80s, she stood there without escort and an amused smile on her lips._

"Hullo. Are you searching for Mrs. Hudson?" John asked the moment he reached the door, wondering why the woman was still standing there when she could've rang or knocked.

"Oh no. I am here for Sherlock Holmes." Her voice was serene and john was positive that the woman was a singer sometime in her life. "But it wouldn't take a genius to know that he is far from a welcoming mood with his shooting. A temper that boy has."

She had that motherly tone often heard from Mrs. Hudson, but somehow hers was more firm, like a very old truth that she had known. The twinkle in her eyes almost deceiving. John thought his time with Sherlock had made him a paranoid that even an old woman he had thought of holding some deep secret that could change the course of their lives permanently.

"Oh. I believe he would be fine to receive you Ma'am. If you have a case for him, then it would be a sure." He stuck his key and opened the door. "John Watson. Come in."

"Thank you Doctor."

_After the usual initial scolding of the five year old boy for shooting the wall because he was bored and he couldn't find a much more nondestructive way of recreation, we did the usual way of receiving our clients. We did try, for Susan would seem to be a surprise for us._

"What do you have for me?" Ever the insufferable git, John had known that this is the best it could go. At least Sherlock seemed to try to find his manners in front of the woman. "Make it quick."

"By your attitude a while ago on shooting the wall, I doubt that you would want me to be quick." She smiled, a small and daresay sly one. Sherlock was about to retort a scathing remark when she continued. "But given that you do think that what an old woman have for you would be a mundane case of missing pets or something you could solve within a minute, I know where you are coming from."

**Sherlock: 0, Client: 1**

"Then what do you have? Oh let's see!" John mentally cursed. Sherlock was on a roll, he hated being outdone by anyone.

"Sherlock." The doctor warned. It fell on deaf ears.

"A cheating husband? Oh no… your husband has been dead for what… 10 to 13 years ago! A cheating in-law? Nooo…given by the fact that you've just written to your four children a few hours ago would mean that they are happily and blissfully married. Ambidextrous but favors right." Sherlock leaned forward his expression cruel and a wicked smile on his face. The expression he usually used when he tore people piece by piece. "How about a new lover? I doubt it, you are the perfect wife, honest and true. One who grew somewhere out the cities, child of war. Eldest sister. Moral and loved by her two…three brothers."

"Sherlock!" Nothing

"Knows some sport but rarely does it, archery. Harp player. Went to an all girls school given that you do have that type of poise and stance. Devout Christian. Married for almost 50 years. 49…Housewife. And a cat lady with a fascination with Medieval history." Sherlock finished with furrowed brows which was something new. Like he was still figuring things out. "Your cat isn't missing so what could you have for me? You are just one regular and boring grandmother."

"Ma'am, I am so sorry! Sher-" The client just sat there, smiling and calm, entertained with Sherlock's tirade and even to John… it was unnerving.

"My husband has been dead for 12 years. Yes my children are happily married. No cheating anything. I am also Eldest sister. I do play the harp and am familiar with archery. I have an interest with Medieval History. And yes I am a Christian and no missing cat. Very good. Even my hand preference. Amazing." The client must have the patience of a saint to not blow up at Sherlock's deductions. Even Mrs. Hudson cried when it became to extreme. "But. As usual you missed certain things. Do you not?"

It was like watching and waiting for a volcano to explode. And the client was feeding it.

"Pray tell."

" I am eldest sister but to two brothers and a sister. I am far from the perfect wife and am no housewife for all my married years. I was a diplomat and a nurse, among other things." She took out a folder and presented it to them. "All I have for you is a missing wardrobe and its contents. I need the return of the items."

John had taken the files, riffling through photos of the wardrobe and other items that are apparently in it.

"Boring. Nonsense. Not important. Petty theft."

"A whole wardrobe? Even the clothes were stolen Sherlock!"

"Mr. Holmes, the items in the wardrobe are priceless to me and I will pay any amount needed to have its return." John tensed. He knew that tone. That was the tone Mycroft often used when he needed something from either John or Sherlock. And by the reaction on Sherlock's face he had made the connection. "Given that you haven't even ranked my case or given me an answer, or even a guess would mean interest or blatant disregard."

"The latter."

"Then so it would seem." The woman sat straighter and the very air around them changed. John bristled as the air seemed to sizzle with electricity. "For a man who proclaim to be a sociopath you have too many emotional ties. Too many secrets. A brother who cares for you but is too similar to you to just tell. A childhood rivalry and grudge." John whirled and looked at Sherlock to see his expression suddenly blank. "A man who told himself not to feel anything so that you wouldn't feel tied to anyone, never to be burdened by the pain you cause with the truths you say. A man who sees feelings and sentiment as useless when the very loathing you have is a feeling. A man who had known solitude and thinks that alone protects him but deep inside is fearing change and so he acts similar to a child. The cases you need are to make use of your active mind and fill the silence for being so alone for so long."

"You, Sherlock Holmes, were a man who rendered himself blind willingly or as single sighted as you could be. Your intellect is of great age but your perception and emotions are that of a child, because of the mere truth that you recognize the use and the need of said emotions yet deems it useless and a weakness. You kept it in a box inside your mind palace." Then she turned to John for a moment. "Meeting the good doctor was a test for you at first. Test of human interaction and social behavior. His emotions and morals and virtues confuse you, but the mere fact that he did not turn away when you bared to him your intellect and deductions…which are the most important of you… interested you. He became the wire that connects you to those who you saw as tools. You don't know that labeling people as something to you is a sign of importance already. And slowly you showed who you are, another experiment to see who will stay. And again you are surprised that they did. That they are genuine. That my dear is a sign of caring."

"Stop." Sherlock's voice was contained anger.

"You died not for the game or case, but because of the guilt that you have drawn a circle of people to your dangerous life. That you being alone and that protecting you is far from true now that they are latched to your life as much as you are latched to theirs." Sherlock hands were shaking. "And even in your death you aren't alone. To pull a stunt of that kind would mean turning to people who you trust more than anything. To people who you trust your life and sanity to. People who you know wouldn't let you down because they know you through and through without you going into detail of what it must be because _they can see you._"

"Ma'am…" It was John this time. And even he was scared to intrude even when the woman was indeed tearing Sherlock apart. Not by unfeeling deductions but with the very way he think.

"The one is your brother… the very same who installed surveillance in your home. The other would be a loved one, since you would never burden your brother when you could ask someone else. This loved one…yes loved… was once ignored but when you turned to her you started to realize. Your death is indeed a death. The death of a machine to a resurrection of a man."

"And if you have paused your ravaged mind in searching for something to spite me and turn me away you could've realized that there would be a murder somewhere in my case too." A murder?

A few ragged breaths from Sherlock was all that echoed in the silence that followed. John didn't know what had happened in reality and was again stunned that it would seem Sherlock had seen a match. He had never seen him this unhinged ever since Baskerville or the Woman's fake death. "How?"

"Information and reactions. Manipulation and baiting. Observing interactions and behavior. Emotional pattern and intellectual attitude. The moment I attacked your being, the very image that you have for yourself, the belief of who you are, reactions are enough to chain conclusions. The sudden blankness of your face was a sign that I have hit a nerve." Then the woman motioned to her eyes. A light blue that could be easily mistaken as silver or gray. "I know you know how to read people in their body actions. Lying and the like…. the same I did with you."

"But how could you tell… the brother? The one who helped him fake his death?" John intervened.

"Oh that. I have heard of another Holmes in my early years as a British diplomat retiree, And I have two brothers, an older one and a younger. Sherlock reminds me of the younger."

"How about Molly?"

"Oh so her name is Molly. She is a very strong woman, a large heart too. As I can see… she could read you, or read what mattered." When John was about to repeat his question. "Oh! How I knew of a woman's involvement? Every great feat of a man is backed up by a woman."

"I do not love her." Sherlock growled out, surprising John that he did remember the woman labeling Molly as Sherlock's loved one.

"Unless you've deleted it, there are different types of love." She commented with ease. "And Sherlock Holmes, emotions are far from weaknesses. The way you have mastered your intellect to make it your greatest strength is the same process of mastering your emotions to aid yourself. And dear boy, you've missed so much already… don't miss out anymore on happiness. Self mastery is one of the greatest strengths of man."

"So would you take my case?" She asked in a cheery voice as if the showdown that happened a few moments ago didn't happen.

"Theft and Murder." Sherlock leaned back, relaxed and smirking. "We'll take the case Mrs. Garnett."

John looked surprised for a moment before shaking his head. Expect it on Sherlock to already know the name.

"Susan. I prefer to be called Susan." Susan chuckled, the charged atmosphere seeping out to a calm one. "Susan Lilianne Garnett nee Pevensie. It would be helpful when you do a background check on me the moment I step out of the room."

"Oh and I would like to be an active participant in the case." John choked on nothing. What more can this woman ask and do? "Oh not with all the running around and stuff. The smaller things… like seeing the body and the like. I have arranged the body to be delivered in St. Barts as we speak. Agreed?"

"You will willingly watch a pathologist cut up the body?" John asked with unease.

"I've seen my share of dead bodies in my lifetime."

"As a diplomat?" Sherlock said in a bored tone.

"As a diplomat."

"Then we will meet you at St. Bart's tomorrow morning by around 8. As you said we would need to do a background check." Susan nodded and moved to leave . John followed suit, ever kind and gallant to show her the way out. The shutting of the door was the only thing to break the silence that seemed too surreal still.

"Sherlock what just happened?"

"I like her." Sherlock waved a hand away. "Go home John, leave the files, do some research, I need to go to my mind palace."

_Susan proved herself interesting enough for the great Sherlock Holmes to accept her case of a stolen wardrobe and its contents mixed with a murder._

_I asked Susan what was it with the wardrobe that was so important to go to Sherlock for help, and the answer I got was most interesting._

_"Why Dr. Watson… do you believe in magic?"_

_-[Unpublished] The Blog of Dr. John Watson._

**TBC**


	2. The Body and the Crime Scene

**The Body and the Crime Scene**

"Why Dr. Watson... do you believe in magic?"

[Unpublished] The Blog of Dr. John Watson

/

The next morning came by with a rare gift of warmth for the chilly and usually dreary London atmosphere. John Watson came to 221B with a weary step and a still sleepy countenance, but his head was whirring with thoughts and questions about what happened the day before. Mary had helped him with the research, all the while exclaiming that old women always have the most interesting of stories and to never ever dismiss them and that she would want to meet Susan one day. His research yielded interesting results and it was a lie to say that they, even Mary, weren't extremely intrigued. The research was interesting, and a little disturbing. Why? Oh, why indeed.

So as he trudge up the stairs he was too deep in thought to realize that Sherlock was already barreling down. Only when they collided did John's instinct kicked in. "Sherlock!"

"Good timing John. Stop being all contemplative and let us go." Sherlock in all his scarf and coat and phone, looking as composed and irritated as he usually was. "Molly already informed me that Susan is already there."

"A-Already?" John stuttered as he quickly changed direction to follow Sherlock out the door and to the sidewalk. "Sherlock! Shouldn't we be talking about the information we found? The research?"

"Oh John there's no need for that. This case is merely a six, the client though is a lovely shining ten! I know I could quickly find whoever caused it." The detective exclaimed in childhood excitement as he motioned John into the car before hopping in, the grin on his face positively wicked. "St. Barts, quickly."

His face turning away from John and to the window, John knew that Sherlock was in his mind palace and if not, he would be too deep for thoughts to even talk to. So he turned to the view outside, wishing that Molly Hooper was there in the morgue already to manage an over excited Sherlock.

/

Molly stared, something she hadn't expected she would do when she made a turnabout from the cafeteria to the morgue just because she heard someone mention Sherlock's name. She had expected an angry person or one of the Scotland Yard when she heard the mention of Sherlock's name earlier, not a lovely old woman with glittering blue-silver eyes that seem to see so much.

"You said something about Sherlock Holmes?" She interrupted when the receptionist was having a hard time telling the woman that Sherlock was yet to come and she couldn't be allowed in the morgue either way. The woman turned with and easy smile and readily meeting Molly's gaze.

"A body was sent here yesterday for him to see today. One named Annabella Hollander, I am - was her guardian and Sherlock Holmes is supposed to examine the body for a case."

Molly blinked. The body of Annabella Hollander indeed came yesterday and John was gracious enough to send her a text latter the day previous about Sherlock's plans for the body but the old woman being present during such process wasn't included. "Indeed, I was informed of Sherlock's plans for the body but I wasn't informed of your involvement. May I have your name?"

"Susan Garnett." Molly nodded, skimming her memory for the name. "As I said, Annabella's guardian."

"Well Mrs. Garnett, I'll be happy to accompany you to the morgue until Sherlock comes. The body's still in the freezer waiting for him, for additional study." She saw in the corner of her gaze the receptionist planning to interrupt with again, the hospital rules of when a person could come in the morgue to view the post-mortems. They already bent the rules for Sherlock and John, and an old woman in addition was risky at itself. "Do not worry Diana, she will be under my supervision and you do understand that anything involving Sherlock surely would be something important."

As she led the way to the morgue for Mrs. Garnett, she caught Diana murmuring something about how nothing involving Sherlock Bloody Holmes was important. Molly merely shrugged, very few were intelligent enough to see what Sherlock Holmes was capable of than what he was showing to the world. She remembered meeting Sherlock for the first time and how everything went from there, all the blunt statements and painful deductions and the small changes she was privy to see. She could only say it was a privilege she was honored and thankful to have. Before she could go deeper to her memories, she stopped herself and came back to the present. She opened the door and welcomed Mrs. Garnett with a wave of her hand. "Well if you would be alright with waiting for Sherlock and John for some time before we could actually see and discuss Annabella, you can sit on any chair available or would you like me to get you some coffee?"

"You can call me Susan and no thank you with the coffee." Susan checked her wristwatch and hummed. "I believe they'd be here soon Dr. Hooper, considering that they'd be excited enough."

"Dr. Hooper?" Molly's mind whirred and she remembered clearly that no one had mentioned her name, and however rude it was, she hadn't introduced herself. "Did Sherlock or John tell you?" She asked as more questions poured out. _Even if Sherlock or John did mention her, how would she know how she looked?_ As far as she remembered, Sherlock doesn't have any pictures of her in his phone. Not that she would know but she was sure that Sherlock wouldn't do something he deem too sentimental.

"He and Dr. Watson had mentioned you when I approached them with my case yesterday. Also, how easily you say his name and the familiarity in your tone was a giveaway. I hope my forwardness didn't offend?" Molly was surprised, and she told herself to not be since she was surrounded everyday by people of utter genius. This Susan Garnett clearly had a deductive skill and she couldn't help the admiration and respect that showed in her smile. Susan smiled back, relief in her features that she didn't offend. "You see, Dr. Hooper, my dear Annabella was killed over a wardrobe. That was why I needed Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson."

"I understand. She is quite a young woman to be dead so early." Molly had seen the corpse and had lamented the death of the twenty year old lady. It wasn't a gruesome death, she wouldn't even consider it a murder. "When I examined her though, there was no-"

"No what, Molly?" Both women gasped and turned to Sherlock Holmes when he pushed open the door to the morgue. John followed closely on his heels, rolling his eyes heavenward at how dramatic Sherlock's entrances always seem to be. Molly though stood straighter, alert and ready.

"No signs of murder at all." She went to the freezer and knew that Sherlock would be following her. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw John take a seat on one of the chairs. She was surprised though when she felt Mrs. Garnett's presence on her side.

/

"No signs of murder at all." Such words didn't mean well to Sherlock. He knew that Molly's discoveries were always spot on and to have this kind of news, only makes his job a little more complicated. He couldn't decide if he likes that or not. Molly pulled out the body from the freezer and immediately he understood. There was no signs of any harm made on the outside, no bruises or anything. His eyes jumped from one part to another, filing them to memory and matching facts to his deductions. The frozen expression, the fear he could see in her blank eyes. There was no manhandling at all.

"Heart attack and no poison." He concluded, looking at Molly and seeing her nod in confirmation even though there was no need. He was Sherlock Holmes, after all. "This makes this all interesting. She died of fear and it was easy work after that." He looked closer at the body, his nose working and his eyes trying to look for something, anything, double time. "Now we wouldn't know anything from this corpse, not the gender of the killer since I doubt he or she even laid a hand on her..." A pause. His eyes taking in what was laid before him. He need to see this in a different light. "A different light!"

"What do you mean Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock turned to Susan, his eyes bright and not even thinking that the dead woman in front of them was her ward.

"Molly, black light." He watched as Molly nodded again and turned to get what he needed. He found himself following each of her movement, from the sway of her ponytail to the way her lab coat adapted to her movements. As if feeling his gaze, she looked back at him and gave him a small smile. He smiled back, a small quirk of his lips, before they both returned to what they should be doing.

"Susan, would there be anyone that expressed interest to your wardrobe before? It would mean someone obsessed for him to scare a woman to death for it." He heard John ask, the Doctor finally off the stool he was sitting on and now joining the conversation. Or rather, starting the conversation. This time, he watched Susan, the 'shining ten' as he told John.

/

_Susan Garnett nee Pevensie_ the subject of Mycroft's email stated. Sherlock had opted to ask Mycroft rather than searching blindly for information. Susan had said she was a diplomat and who would know more of the government other than Mycroft? He had also opted to call his brother beforehand, and such call was interesting.

_Susan Garnett nee Pevensie, Diplomat (1953 - 1978). Known as The Queen Cobra._ His eyes read the email with a concentration he always gave when on a case. _Born, 1928._ He skipped the parts of which he had already known, facts he had deduced when they first met.

_Parents: Francis and Helen Pevensie Siblings: Peter, Edmund, Lucy Died: 1949 | Cause: Train accident_

/

"Sherlock?" He snapped out and turned to Molly, his hand automatically reaching out to the black light she held for him. "I've tried that...and that is what I was about to tell you." He felt her hesitation and wondered why. Rarely would Molly be hesitant, especially after the Fall. The Fall had given her the opening of showing the world her strength, her courage, the fire that was once kept. Blinking, he cocked his head to the side, waiting for her to continue. Thankfully, Molly wasn't one to disappoint. "Better you see it with your eyes. You too, Mrs. Gar- Susan."

And then the black light was turned on. He heard John took in a sharp breath and Molly move across him. Susan, the most important person in the room at the moment moved closer. She didn't utter one sound and to that Sherlock's interest was piqued a little more. He remembered her saying that she had indeed seen dead people and it would seem that it wasn't just bragging on her part. _Crowned Gentle_ glowed on Annabella's forehead. Sherlock's brows furrowed as he gave Molly a glance. The pathologist nodded, urging him to go on and that there was something more. He did. _Hailed Liar_ showed on the girl's lips. He could hear John writing down the notes. The scraping of his pen on paper the only sound other than their breathing. He moved the light to the stomach, expecting something more. None. His arm moved, searching for something more. Two lines didn't bode well with him, it sounded incomplete. A cliffhanger he needed to know the continuation immediately. _Murderess_ on one arm, he moved hurriedly to the other. _Shadowed._ It was a few more moments of silence after John stopped writing everything down. A few moments of tension and Sherlock couldn't even deny the feeling that someone just lowered the temperature even more. "Well it would seem we have another game maker trying to have us play." He said simply.

He turned to Susan, who was still staring at the body with her brows furrowed and her lips in a frown. "Do you have anything to tell us Mrs. Garnett?"

She shook her head and turned away from the body with her hands shaking. Sherlock turned to meet John's gaze, giving him a small nod. They would need to get information and for their client to hold back anything that would be helpful was detrimental for the case to be closed. John though, was the more emphatic one and Sherlock always left such talking to him.

"Dr. Hooper, thank you for letting me know what really happened to Annabella. It is a relief to know she wasn't hurt beyond...what we have seen." Susan shuffled to the chair she just vacated and sat back down. Her smile when she spoke was shaky and the words hardly made sense to Sherlock. He kept his mouth shut though as he knew that John and Molly would deem it 'not good'. "You remind me of my sister Lucy, she showed such perception like you. Same fiery hair as well, though I doubt she would like cutting up corpses for a living. I'm afraid she was made for much brighter things."

_Lucy Pevensie_ the artist of the family. Mycroft's email was filled with artworks of the young woman. Aesthetically beautiful, the subjects though were hardly appealing to Sherlock. Lions, fauns, centaurs and other creatures of myth littered the paintings. Fantasy, a subject the consulting detective never cared about.

Silence.

John cleared his throat to break it. "So, Crowned Gentle. Hailed Liar. Murderess Shadowed."

"Shadowed Murderess." Susan corrected, her eyes glued back to the body as Molly once again returned it to the freezer. John cleared his throat, meeting Sherlock's gaze and looking back to Susan.

Sherlock merely raised his brow, before giving the explanation himself. "Mrs. Garnett is ambidextrous that is why the suspect used words that could be interchanged. She favors her right hand though, which is why it is Shadowed Murderess rather than the other way." Susan nodded and John gave a hum. Molly returned to them and held a cup of warm tea to Susan which she gladly took. Sherlock once again noted her shaking hands. "I have a few ideas, eight. Since it is still early, shall we go to the crime scene? Molly if you found anything else, please text me."

"Of course Sherlock." Sherlock nodded and gave her another small smile, her dimples showing when she smiled back. It was only then that he turned and walked out the room, knowing that John and Susan weren't so far behind.

/

There were traces of the same invisible ink on the floor of Susan's house. On the wooden floor and on the carpet, it was like the ink was spilled by children wanting to play. Susan led the way to the room where the wardrobe once was and when they entered the room, John was surprised to see that Sherlock pretty much concluded what happened.

"Three men." Sherlock deduced quickly, pointing at the parts on the carpet that John needed to look closer to even see what Sherlock meant. "Two were large, surely the ones that actually lifted the wardrobe, since there are no signs that it was dragged. The other, was much lighter on his feet and quite tall. Smart enough to not leave and marks on other surfaces and smart enough not to leave any other tracks."

John looked around the room, making his way to where there was a clear discoloration of where the wardrobe once was. "Sherlock?" His hand reached to the wall as his mind whirred with questions and ideas. "Do you think, since they left a message on Annabella...they would?" He motioned at the wall, his forehead knotting and his gaze piercing. He needed to shield his eyes when Sherlock turned to black light to his direction. When he turned back to the wall, what he saw made him gape.

_A lion. A roaring face of a lion, in great detail manifest._ And John's head was directly in it's mouth.

"Well John, you are right. Good thinking. Why a lion though?" Sherlock directed the question to Susan. The painting was both beautiful and unnerving. The glow of the invisible ink making everything eerie. John tried not to shudder, knowing in his gut that this wouldn't be so easy as Sherlock thought. "Would this be of any significance, Susan? Didn't your sister draw such subjects?"

John peered for a reaction and was disappointed to find not even an unplaced flinch. What's on her face was wonder and a cold calm that reminded him of the sleuth beside him. Sherlock's expression was so similar when there was a new case to solve. To Susan though, what relevance would the lion imply? Would it be an old enemy that wants to bring up old family feuds? If someone would bring up a family member, then wouldn't that mean revenge? What was the purpose of stealing the wardrobe? What would they want from it? What would they want to get from an old woman? By what he was seeing, Susan was hardly letting it affect her, on the outside.

"Someone that knows my past." Susan's voice was hollow. "My and that of my siblings."

"W-what past would that be?" John caught himself asking.

"Well, some war torn past as I said before." Her smile was sure but her eyes were too calculating that her words sounded like a lie. And by Sherlock's face, John knew it was.

Lame. Really lame update even for one super duper late. Ahahaha, a thousand apologies. Though, what do you think so far? I forever just post first drafts. T^T


	3. No Rest

**Chapter 3: No Rest.**

There was an advantage in denying sleep for hours and then crashing, and Sherlock Holmes knew these advantages. The main reason he did not sleep during cases was that his raging mind would shut up the moment he crashed to bed after the case.

He hated dreams the most.

For a man of science, dreams were of fantasy, even more if you dream of fantasy.

Like what he was having right now.

He hated dreaming, even if it was something that brought him back in time. Most of the times it was even worse than memories. Like this one.

"What matter do you need to speak with us?" There stood two figures before him, blurred even when he blinked his eyes. The smell of alcohol and disinfectant was all he could take with every inhale. Cold prickled his skin under his clothes. Instead of white, there's only a blur of brown and cream which he could surely deduce as wooden shelves and tables, as well as loads of _paper? Parchment?_

"What is it that you wish to speak of?" Male. Early twenties.

_What was it that you wish to speak of Sherlock Holmes? _A simple curious inquiry loaded with a dare and a demand of an answer.

"Your Majesties, my apology for the interruption." Deep voice and loud, Sherlock whirled around...well tried to. He couldn't move and could only stare at the blur with burning irritation. Whoever spoke was clearly a man and he found the urge to growl because he couldn't even smell or taste anything and his sight was of no help. Whoever spoke was uneasy and unsure. "My father wishes to talk with Mr. Tumnus for consultation but I know not if the information should be given to you before him, especially when this concerns the Queen."

"Speak clearly Sivalis." He tensed with the new voice. Woman. Early twenties. Gentle with undertones of steel. He raced to grasp anything about the three voices and the words spoken. "Which Queen?"

_Which Queen?_ He growled openly now. What kind of farce was he in to witness monarchy of old when there's nothing he could use from it at the present? His mind overlapped and drowned his irritations as more questions demanded answers. _Peace treaty for kingdoms would mean multiple royalties in attendance. Or a simple royal visit. Who is Mr. Tumnus? _

"Apologies, my Queen." Sherlock's mind raced. _Queen?_ "My father had studied the stars as you asked him to and your Elder Royal Brother expressed that we make sure that your Sister Queen's voyage to Archenland be safe, but the stars had moved in such an alarming matter."

"Why speak to Mr. Tumnus first?" An undercurrent of fire to a calm voice. "Is there something more of the matter?"

_Archenland? Voyage? Sister Queen?_ Never had there been in medieval history a case of sibling monarchy, especially ruling monarchs. By the look of things, four in one country. _What is this damn fantasy I am in?_

"Your father thought it would be wise to have Mr. Tumnus dissuade her without bringing the matter to us." Sherlock could clearly picture the smile in the tone. It was interesting on how the man's tone was sure but the woman's was that of a lure. A woman who knows her power and wouldn't regret in using it. "A wise choice, but I doubt if it would make any effect. Once she decided something on her own, only Aslan can stop her."

"Especially now that she's no longer a child." A frustrated sigh. "Also, if it is something about the weather, she would hardly care. The Eastern Seas are hers and she had explored it ever since she got over her sea legs."

"Thank you Sivalis." Kind dismissal that all Queens have. "Do carry on with your father's bidding while we plan on some precautions."

It was useless to turn around, even if he tried his hardest. The sounds muffled and the images sharpened that his head ached. He wobbled on his feet, a hand gripping his curls and a groan fighting its way into a scream.

"He's quite easy to read."

"Sivalis is quite young. It's something that in situations like these, is quite useful. Though I do worry about what they've seen in the heavens. I would need to make a consultation. Shall we, brother?"

"Your word is my law, sister."

Sherlock Holmes woke up with those six words ringing in his ears. He blinked as the world came into sharp focus and bright lights. White. Metal. Disinfectant. Warm. He blinked again. He straightened up from leaning on the table and took in the baby pink and cherry littered blanket that fell to his waist. He didn't know how long he stared trying to connect reality to the dream he had. When was the last time he dreamt so vividly and to remember it in waking? A year? A few months ago? He only snapped when the door whined open when Molly came in. _St. Barts. Morgue. Molly. Blanket. Evidence._

"How long?" He saw her jump in her skin. She turned with wide eyes that gentled at the next moment. She set down the files she brought in..

"A few hours." Her hair was in a braid that fell on her right shoulder and her lips were tainted light pink. She sneaked a look at the clock behind her. "Three at most. Hard case?"

"A six." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Though it is turning into a nine."

"Unexpected?"

"Underestimated."

Molly leaned to the table across him, the tip of her braid just brushing her hand. He expected the surprise to shadow her expression, but found none. How many times did Sherlock Holmes admit underestimating a case? "How come?"

"He's careful." Sherlock steepeled his fingers. "The invisible ink was cheap and could be bought in any grocery store. Everything was meant to be found. Three men. Foot sizes of seven, eight and ten. Too big a foot size for the latter two. It was orchestrated. Traces of dirt that could only found on the left foot while the right is as dry and pestered with the usual dust concrete of the pavement outside the house. Too careful that no scratches even damaged the walls or the stairs when they brought the wardrobe down the stairs. Too. Careful. The cameras were tapped before the date of the disappearance as a trial. It looked like an error lapse that the cameras were replaced. Then it was tapped again, differently."

"No fingerprints on the body and the writing was messy but legible enough. Written using a paintbrush. The lion… is really fierce, yet calm. Messy but it showed the emotion quite well." She nibbled at her lip. "Well, a nap is good for you."

His nose twitched in distaste because his head was still aching from the sleep. He shrugged the blanket back to his shoulders and held on it tight.

"I'll get some coffee."

"Molly." She paused halfway of pushing herself away from the table and met his gaze.

"Yes?"

He mustered an almost sleepy smile. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

He would've liked to bask in the bright calm of her smile, but it would seem that he asked for too much excitement that it must now come one after another. This time it was a text.

_BBC News. - MH_

"Molly!" For Mycroft to text would mean it's definitely important. Another was that it involved a possibility of national security. The last and least he could think of was Mycroft asking him for a personal matter. What BBC News offered made Molly gasp and Sherlock to realize she was there. While they watched, his phone rang and was turned off thrice. The fourth was when the clip already ended and he only found it necessary to answer.

"_Sherlock! Three times for God's sake."_

"Lestrade. Don't let Anderson touch anything just yet. I'm on my way with Molly. Don't let anyone touch anything." He marched out the room with his fingers tapping on his phone. Molly followed. "I'm sorry Molly. I've asked Stanford. Are you going to be fine with me?"

Molly rolled her eyes and Sherlock wondered what he said wrong. She was already out her lab coat and ready to go. "I'm a pathologist Sherlock. I handle dead people for a living."

He hesitated. "Not like this."

Determination colored her stance and he knew he shouldn't have hesitated. "Still dead."

He could only nod at that.

_**St. Bartholomew's the Great. 5:45 am.**_

He came across many brutalities, but he rarely came across this kind. Seemingly careless murders, left marks as clues that disappear in a few minutes, and patterns. Little things that could lead to the bigger clues of the key to the problem. Patterns. Mistakes. Anger. Grief. Boredom. These he was familiar with.

Even Jim Moriarty was insanity and boredom.

Not breathless art. Breathless. Grotesque. Morbid. Beautiful.

They arrived to the scene with John already present and looking at it with the same wonder and fear when he saw the illuminated lion's face. Wiggins stood beside him with eyes jumping from one part to another. He was clearly uneasy, and trying his best not to show it. Molly was still wide eyed and frozen as she was when they saw the news. For Sherlock, there was a moment of silence and the world slowed down in mockery of his usually speeding mind.

"The Great Sherlock Holmes, speechless." Sally Donovan was the one to snap him to attention. She stepped to his side and looked at it, then sighed. "Who wouldn't?"

Sound returned and reality set in. He saw Lestrade detach himself and drag Anderson to their direction. Molly breathed out and he could feel herself giving a mental wake up call. John was just there, waiting as he had seen what they have. Sally was looking at him expectantly, before turning to Molly with a calm smile. "Thank you for coming Molly. Your expertise is greatly needed."

"I can't stop Anderson or John from looking. We couldn't wait and let everyone to just see this. I have priests breathing on my neck about someone desecrated sacred ground and it needs to be removed as soon as possible."

"Priests and their fickle minds. Give us half an hour at most Geoff." Sherlock forced his usual lack of tact, but he was sure that it was shaky. John's hovering was sign enough that his unease was showing. "Molly, John, Anderson, another examination. I want to hear what you found."

"M-me?"

"Yes Anderson. I want to hear what you think."

"R-really?"

He scoffed. "Move before I change my mind. Lestrade I-"

Lestrade fell in step. "I got all shots available from any possible surveillance camera within the area and I am requesting for as far as a quarter mile radius."

Sherlock nodded. "Have Wiggins check on them. We'll be joining you later."

"Sherlock."

"Later. We can't let the dead wait."

He approached it and noticed that Anderson wouldn't even come close as three feet. "What is it? Don't tell me you've suddenly got chills."

"N-no. It's just that… If my calculations are correct-"

"You calculating?" He raised a brow. If he was to be honest with himself, he wouldn't want to be so close to it as well.

"Listen!" Anderson broke into a sweat. "He was still alive."

John blanched and Molly tensed.

"He was still alive when they cut him open, drained him and stitched him up." Anderson's face was of pure horror. "I tried telling Lestrade but he wouldn't believe that someone, anyone would survive the process long enough!"

There's a burning that started under his skin. Dread that he forced to keep from spreading. He had known and witnessed worse. Why was he so affected? He faced the corpse. Each deduction showing him the truth.

A centaur.

"They cut him open while making sure he is breathing. Then they sewed the already dead horse to the body." Cold calculation. "He died when they completely cut him half. He was still bleeding when they propped him up with the poles."

On a platform. Hand gripping a hunting horn and stuffed to his mouth. A blazing sun painted on its hide.

"The horse died more than twelve hours before the man. By the softening of the muscles, it was refrigerated before the _operation._" Molly spat the word.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade rushed before he could ask for more time. "I can't. Five minutes the most. There's another."

The DI flipped his phone and showed it to them. "St. Bartholomew's the Less."

A faun strangled by his red scarf, dangling on a tree branch beside a lit lamppost.

When the camera moved to the people watching the scene, Sherlock spotted Susan among the crowd. Her face that of war. "Five minutes, Sherlock."

When Sherlock shut down (_forcefully_) the voices screaming and the emotions (_panic_) raging in him, he got more than he expected in five minutes.

_**St. Bartholomew's the Less. 6:30 am.**_

It was easier to collect evidence this time. There was no question that whoever the victim was suffered the same fate as the centaur. Susan apparently didn't know of the centaur and only when they were about to wrap things up did John even mentioned it to her. The horror and fury on her face was as open as a wildfire. Sherlock was witness to it and could only pinpoint that the matter of the wardrobe was more complicated than he thought.

_Underestimated._

"Personal grudges." He muttered under his breath as he waited for Lestrade to finish instructing the cleanup. Molly had called Stanford about the bodies and on what to do with them. Wiggins was still at the other church, finding no need to move him when his work was important enough as it is. John was still on _talking to Mrs. Garnett _task. When would the good doctor realize that Susan was nowhere a frail woman, whether it is of her age or her appearance of gentleness? Lestrade exchanged a quick word with Susan.

"What do you think of her?" Lestrade looked surprised at his question. He motioned them to step away, pulling out two sticks of cigarette and giving one to Sherlock. When they've inhaled enough smoke to be able to organize their thoughts, Sherlock got his answer.

"Strong. I've seen enough murders in my lifetime but this churned my stomach easier than I've prepared myself for. Many had wondered how they died, and I've never seen such horror on Anderson's face at his discovery. She's unnerving. I don't know how she could smile like that and still say that it was her fault about this whole situation revolving around her." Another deep inhale. "I can only imagine what she could've seen back in her days. _War. She said._ Never had I known war to result to _that._"

"She's angry. Whoever did this, or is challenging her, stepped the line."

"Too early." Sherlock said. "Unless he got the cards perfectly arranged."

"So we're finding a surgeon, enough to know how to keep people alive while doing that. And a party of three other men with a variation of foot sizes. And to track down two vans that your boy found in one of the shots. Deliberately left there."

"We're being played." Sherlock growled. "I hate being played."

"Theories?"

"None. I need more evidence."

"We have two dead bodies, isn't that enough?"

"No! It's only resulting to more and more questions. The main of them is why? I don't even know which why it is!"

Lestrade's eyes colored with confusion. "What is it that you're really trying to figure out Sherlock?"

He walked away to avoid answering.

_**St. Barts. 7:30 am.**_

Mary was there when they arrived, with food of all things. Wiggins was already munching on sandwiches as his fingers flew over the keys of the laptop Sherlock bought him. Sherlock missed the following:

1. John kissing his wife on the cheek. Mary whispering something in his ear.

2. Wiggins giving an uneasy look to him and making a grimace.

3. Lestrade sharing a look with Wiggins as he guided Susan to a chair. Mary offering the sandwiches.

4. Molly excusing herself and going to Stanford about the bodies.

During the time of which he had organized the following:

A. The Girl

1. Cheap invisible ink. Was supposed to be seen. The attention taker for the use of big things. What's more important is what it portrayed. A lion and a riddle. Highlighting footsteps.

2. Three men. Shoe sizes of seven, eight and ten. Foot sizes of seven, six and nine. Seven and Nine are heavy set men. More muscle than fat to be able to lift a wardrobe. Their care would mean experience to the industry. _Check house movers business establishments close in the area._

3. Even the shoes were orchestrated. Gravel to the right. Soil and dirt to the left. City. Outskirts. Forests with leaves. _What is this? They kept the left shoes covered in plastic bags of dirt just to make a point?_

4. The brush used on the wall painting was of the same family to the one used for the body.

B. The Centaur

1. The pole embedded to hold the war horn right arm up was only deep enough to support bone. The feet of the horse were strapped to the support. The whole figure was rolled to the area by the tracks it made.

2. Estimated time of death for the man was 24-28 hours. Further investigation needed because of the cause of death.

**Man: **  
>33-36 years old<br>Experienced pianist

Left handed  
>Alcoholic<p>

Early stages of diabetes

Fit

**Horse:**

Friesian

24-26 years

Very well taken care of and healthy

3. Painted sun on the back of the horse half, not on the side but on top close to the tail. Style was similar to the Lion, but with more care. Made sure that the paint would stick to fur and last.

4. Grains of sand found. Desert sand. _Where can one get desert sand in London? Must note recent disturbances in museum exhibits._

5. Same men moved the figure, but this time they wore shoes that fit them. First deduction was correct about the actual foot sizes.

6. Figure been in place for an estimate of 2-3 hours.

C. The Faun

1. Red scarf made of Stansborough Grey wool. Colored using biodegradable dye. Was only used to cover the wire that actually held the whole body up.

2. Estimated time of death. Man: 12-24 hours. Goat: 15-28 hours.

**Man:**

25-29 years old.

Tea drinker

Experienced flautist

Fit and healthy physically

**Goat:**

Appenzell

20-25 years

Very well taken care of and healthy

3. Goat half was drenched in salt water, though by the time it was found, it was barely traceable.

4. There was a wooden double flute on the ground below where the body was hung.

5. All evidence said that it was the same group of people. Length of exposure, an hour after the centaur's was hung.

_Which why?_

"Why do you know they were about you?" The buzz of reality flooded in and was halted by silence. "How did you know they were about you? For you even?"

He didn't realize he moved until he was staring Susan down and gripping the armrests of her chair. "Why would someone make an interest of your past when all you ever did was get holed in the country during the war, go to America, lose your family in a train crash and find your way to the British government? You strictly said that it was about your war torn past. Why would someone take interest of a teenager's memories?"

The hard glint that her eyes took as armor almost reminded him of The Wom- _Irene_. (He had promised himself to call her by name ever since _that time_ of nothingness.) Almost. He gritted his teeth and sneered. "Do you know nothing of fear?"

"I learned that showing such would only cause a chain of events that I would rather never revisit."

"Tell me why."

"Because whoever caused this is mocking me."

"Why?"  
>"The war made us do a lot of horrible things. Sometimes, even without it." He pulled back with a hiss when he got that answer.<p>

"Centaurs and fauns." Mary broke the tension. He only realized that he was glaring at the tile were Susan's feet were and looked away too late. "He or she, has a beautiful relationship with fantasy and mythology to portray such likeness. It would also seem that they know what they speak of."

"Lions, centaurs and fauns." Sherlock hissed again. His mind spinning and spinning and spinning out of control as he tried to figure out endless answers for why. _That's the last question you answer, not the first. Why change?_ "Tell me why."

"Why would someone make such _art_ just for you? Why are they mocking you?"

Sad eyes. Sad smile. He hated pity, more than anything, especially directed to him. All the while, his mind raced. _Centaurs. Sagittarius. Centaurs. Archers. Centaurs._

"You wouldn't believe the truth."

_Centaurs. Greek mythology. Centaurs. Fantasy. Centaurs._

"Lie then." Something. He needed something. A direction to take because this is a cacophony of battles far from just finding who killed who and what was stolen. "Tell me something I want to hear."

_Centaurs. Popular fantasy. Centaurs._

"Everything about this could've been easier."

_Stars._

"Of course. Your word is my law." _Sister._

Shock. Panic. _Truth._ _How?_

"I believe it's time to go home for Mrs. Garnett. We would need more time to find anything important that would need your thorough attention."

"Of course." She didn't need help getting up. Was graceful when she took John's arm, but her eyes were shards of ice in calculation but still muddled by shock. They stood there stock still and in silence, waiting. He knew they were waiting for him to do something. Looking at him like he was a time bomb. Looking away like he would be a rabid beast devouring.

"I got her to a cab." John looked shaken which was useless to hide because the people in the room could read him like an open book. Even Wiggins. "Sherlock -"

He exploded. Howled. Roared. Frustration leaking out and demanding release. His mind castle shaken to disarray trying to figure out and finding order.

"Sherlock!" _John._

He grabbed the flute and hurled it to the nearest wall, satisfied when he heard a snap. Everything slowed down. _Mocking him. Always mocking him. _He could hear the breath rushing in his lungs and the blood pounding in his ears. Anger a wildfire burning his insides. The feeling of his heart beating painfully amplified when realization of what he just did echoed with the clanking wood to tile.

"_Sherlock!" _John.

Cocus wood. He stumbled to the broken flute and picked up the offending piece of paper that peaked out.

"_Shezza."_

Ink. Written by plume.

"_Shezza."_

_**Since you are the deemed champion with your retinue, joining this tourney so gallantly,**_

"What?"  
>"You need to see this."<p>

_**Let me help you ask the right questions.**_

**[TBC]**

**Author's notes:**

**Well it isn't a full year… yet… since the last update. Life has been busy with me trying to juggle around stuff. I just saw this while trying to run away from workload and boom! Ideas.**


End file.
